


As the stars begin to gather

by middlemarch



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Crime Fighting, F/M, Romance, Vignette, gala - Freeform, running late
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 09:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13431396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: So much depended on the evening going as planned...





	As the stars begin to gather

“Vivian, we’re going to be late,” Gareth called. He was in an unusual state, half-impatience and half-curiosity. She’d been sequestered in the other bedroom for over an hour now and he could not think what she was doing, nor how she could have lost track of time. She was not one to linger when time was of the essence, though she could be as deliberately languorous as a lioness when it situation (or Gareth himself, nearly choked with desire) called for it. The event tonight was critical to the case and he knew neither of them would be able to tolerate the impact on their progress should a delayed arrival undo all their careful plotting.

“Vivian!” he shouted, just outside the door. There was no sound of scurrying, no sudden clatter of jewelry being dropped to the dressing table. He paused to listen, then spoke again in a lower voice.

“It’s most awfully quiet in there, love,” he said. He wondered whether it was his tone or his choice of words, the endearment tossed off almost without thinking, that garnered a response. He’d ask later.

“C’m in al’dy,” was about all he could make out, but it sounded near enough an invitation and the antique mantel clock which still kept perfect time showed they were falling even further behind.

“Bloody hell,” he said, walking in and seeing her.

“I’m stuck,” she explained, her voice muffled by the yards of silk and velvet, one arm aloft like one of Degas’s little dancers, her face obscured. 

“I can see that. Quite clearly, even if you can’t,” he replied, laughing a little. He wasn’t sure how she was still so utterly lovely, trapped in couture, her chignon on the verge of collapse. The line of her neck as she strained to escape and the way she arched her back, those he knew or thought he had, but the juxtaposition with the silk and the incontrovertible humor of the moment was an unexpectedly erotic delight. He’d wait to tell her, she mightn’t appreciate it just now.

“Shall I help you then?” he asked.

“Were you thinking of just standing there?” she challenged. “Jesus, Gareth, you came in. Get over here already and help me get this on without ripping it to shreds.”

“As you wish, madam,” he said. It really wasn’t terribly hard though he could see she’d no way out without assistance. “Hang on, let me get this part,” he said, lightly tugging the bodice down, aligning the zip. “Just be a minute now,” he added, sliding the zip up; it hadn’t a very long way to travel as the gown was missing half its back though what it revealed of Vivian’s was very enticing indeed. Almost as enticing as her flushed face surveying him over her shoulder, a few strands of hair loosed round her cheeks, the glint of a diamond drop in her ear.

“You needn’t wait so long to ask for help, you know. When you’re in a tight spot, as it were,” he said, dropping his hands to her waist. The silk there was ruched but he could still feel the warmth of her body, the breath that she took when he pressed closer to her. Damn the gala, damn Bond and the trap he meant to spring, damn the zip that called to be eased back open!

“I’ll bear that in mind. As well as perhaps opting for a simpler evening gown. Though this one does have its advantages,” she said, flicking aside a velvet fold so he could see the weapon holstered on her thigh.

“That’s a Ballester-Molina. Out of service since ’45,” he said, reaching out to touch it, letting his finger graze her skin.

“Yes—and no. Q found this for me, he’d tinkered with it a bit. It’s got some, um, special features,” Vivian said, letting the skirt fall back.

“And you’re prepared to use it?” he asked, thinking back on conversations they’d had, the repulsion in her voice when she spoke of the trauma firearms could wreak on the human body.

“I’m prepared. I don’t want to use it. But also, I won’t be a liability. And I’m prepared to request not to be assigned to a case like this again,” she explained.

“Vivian, you know I can’t make promises,” he said, wishing it was just a gala, just an evening of champagne and canapes and tired, elitist comments about the art, the performance, enlivened by Moneypenny’s perfect, cutting mimicry of every guest, James’s rare demonstration of the fox-trot.

“That’s not true. You can make promises, Gareth, you do. All the time. You just can’t keep them,” she said and he heard how she hated it, accepted it. How much she wanted to solve this case and how much she wanted to return to her research. And to that stone cottage in Caithness where they had only been Vivian and Gareth and no one else.

“I’ll try harder, then,” he said, meaning it even if he had no bloody idea how he might do it.

“I know you will. And when you get stuck, I’ll help you,” she said, taking his hand and squeezing it. “We have to go now, we’ll be late,” she went on and he found himself thinking they wouldn’t be, that nothing could start until she arrived, wild thoughts, a young man’s folly. An old man’s wisdom. The utter truth.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the theme-song to Spectre. Caithness is the northern-most country in Scotland. I allow the reader to decide just what M and Vivian's case entails and whether James actually took Moneypenny out for a spin on the dance floor. This story was written for a good friend who is feeling a bit creatively stuck with her own story...


End file.
